


Summer Is Over

by emolee96



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - School, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emolee96/pseuds/emolee96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because summer is over, and Les Amis, were, of course "A society which had for its object apparently the education of children, in reality the elevation of man."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Is Over

“Well, you’re certainly here early,” Enjolras commented when he walked into the faculty room to find Courfeyrac already seated at the table and staring at his computer.

“Shhh!” he said angrily, “Two minutes of silence, please!”

“Two minutes of silence. I haven’t heard that one since the last time… Oh, wait, that was the last time I was in your classroom, wasn’t it?” Enjolras said sarcastically. Courfeyrac just glared at him. Enjolras just took his usual seat next to his friend and pulled out his own laptop to read the few news articles he’d bookmarked before he’d left his apartment. He was adamant that his students all leave his classroom with a good knowledge of current events, and given that it was the first day back from summer vacation, they would probably know a lot about Miley Cyrus and next to nothing about what was happening in Syria. But he was going to change that, because he was their teacher and that was his job.

“OK, now can you tell me what you’re watching?” Enjolras asked a few minutes later when the sound from Courfeyrac’s computer stopped, but he was still staring at it with a blank expression.

“Winter is coming,” Courfeyrac told him, “And its abs are better than Jehan’s.” He turned the screen to show Enjolras the trailer for Pompeii, and Enjolras had to admit, Courfeyrac was right.

“Jon Snow’s abs _again_? Really, Courf?” Combeferre sighed as he walked into the faculty room and took a seat on the other side of Enjolras.

“Even you can’t deny it, ‘Ferre, he’s quite attractive,” Courfeyrac challenged.

“Yeah, whatever, but some of us have lessons to plan that don’t involve five-word summaries of books and what to name the class goldfish, and we have to focus on real work,” Combeferre shot back.

“Fourth grade is the best grade and don’t you even try to pretend it’s not true.”

Enjolras was, wisely, refraining from getting involved in the argument, and was now reading an article on the upcoming season of Sherlock, because he’d waited long enough and was not going to be patient for that much longer, thank you very much.

“Gentleman, gentleman, arguing again, are we?” Jehan joked as he walked in and sat down next to Combeferre. “Classes haven’t even started yet.”

“Call him a gentleman all you want, Jehan, but everyone knows it isn’t true.” Combeferre grinned. Courfeyrac looked appropriately outraged at the comment.

“And yet you are the perfect gentleman, of course, my dear.” Jehan shook his head, laughing despite himself as the banter continued and the rest of their friends filed in.

“Where’s Grantaire?” Enjolras whispered to Combeferre when the bell rang and Valjean, the principal, walked in.

“I don’t know. He’ll be here. Jehan’s already talked to him this morning. Why?” Combeferre asked him.

“No reason, just wondering.”

“Sure,” Combeferre muttered, like it wasn't true. Because it really wasn't true, and they all knew that.

“Good morning, everyone,” Valjean said cheerfully, “Welcome back. I hope nobody’s gotten into trouble yet,” he looked pointedly at Bahorel, who gave him a thumbs up and a slightly sarcastic smile. (He was sporting an almost-healed black eye from a boxing match he’d had with Grantaire the weekend before.) “Grantaire, how are you this fine morning?”

“Fine, sir, sorry I’m late,” Grantaire apologized as he sat down between Bahorel and Cosette, hair slightly messy, his tie still undone.

Cosette scribbled something on a piece of paper and slid it over to him. _What happened?_

 _Car trouble,_ he wrote back, _Stupid thing. I really should just get a new one. But money and all._

_I could have picked you up, any one of us could have, you know that._

“Euphrasie, Grantaire, you two with us?” Valjean asked.

“Yes, sir, sorry,” Cosette apologized. Valjean never treated his daughter differently from any of the other teachers, not while school was in session. It was one of the things Cosette loved about her job. And the students, of course. When she really thought about it, there was nothing she didn’t like.

“As I was saying, this is shaping up to be a very good year, and I think we’re off to a great start already, so just go out there and do your best. Other than that, I have nothing else to add. Any questions?” When nobody raised their hands, Valjean pushed his chair back from the table and opened the door. “Alright then. Meeting adjourned. Have a good day everyone!”

“You were late,” Enjolras said to Grantaire as they walked out the door and down to their classrooms, which were across the hall from one another.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me, that really just made my day so much better,” Grantaire said sarcastically.

“I wasn’t trying to upset you. If it was your car again I could have driven you in, you know that,” Enjolras told him, “You live two blocks away from me, it’s no trouble, really.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Grantaire said quietly, “Well, I have a class right now, so I should probably go.”

“Yeah, me too,” Enjolras said, “I’ll see you at lunch, I suppose.”

* * *

Courfeyrac loved his kids. He didn't let them know it, of course. Not at first. He couldn't have them getting too comfortable. That only ended in disaster. But he loved his kids, and he loved what he did, and so they all loved him.

“Alright, you guys, over on the rug, meeting time!” he called to them. He’d never seen a group of twenty-five ten-year-olds move so quickly. You’d think they’d never seen a rug before.

“Why’re we here?” one of them asked.

“You’ll see. It’s a surprise,” he told them. They got even more excited after that, which he hadn’t thought was possible. Apparently it was. “Now, I know some of you already, and I’m sure you all know me, because I’m obviously the most popular teacher in the school.” A few of the kids laughed, but most of them just looked at him like he was a little bit crazy. Which, in hindsight, was probably true. You have to be, to be with little kids all day. “But we’re all going to go around the circle and introduce ourselves, so that way we all get to know each other, okay? But there are some rules.” He looked around, making eye contact with each of the students staring up at him with wide, now slightly frightened eyes, before he continued.

“Now, I have a stuffed Dalek right here, his name’s Winston. Who knows what Daleks are from?” The same boy from earlier raised his hand.

“Doctor Who!” he said triumphantly.

“Very good. Now Winston, here, he’s like our talking stick. So whoever is holding Winston gets to talk, and everyone else needs to listen to them. Quietly. You can pass Winston to whoever you want until everyone’s had a turn to introduce themself and say one interesting fact. How does that sound? Good? Good. Okay. So, I’m Mr. Courfeyrac, you can just call me Courfeyrac, drop the Mr., I’m not that scary, or Mr. Courf, if my really name is really that hard to pronounce, which apparently it is. And I’m your teacher, as you all probably know. My favorite color is green. Actually, that’s not very interesting, is it? Sometimes, I forget to eat breakfast in the morning because my cat is annoying me so much. His name is Dog. Don’t ask how that happened, because I don’t really know, but it works for him. Who wants to go next?”

He passed Winston to the same boy who had raised his hand earlier. “I’m Gavroche,” he said, “And I’m really good at cooking dinner. Especially spaghetti. My sister says I make great spaghetti.”

He passed Winston to the girl next to him, who was wearing her hair in braided pigtails and looked kind of like a character out of a children’s book, if Courfeyrac was going to be totally honest with himself, which he always was, he had a policy of self-honesty. Winston continued to be passed around, handled usually with care and occasionally tossed like a football, but it was nothing he hadn’t experienced before. And now Courfeyrac was thinking of the stuffed toy like a sentient being. Great. Half an hour in and he was already in full crazy mode.

* * *

 

Two rooms away, Bahorel was traumatizing a group of freshman who’d just walked into Grantaire’s classroom.

“So, art,” he said to them, “Art, art, art, art, art. Art. It’s a great thing, art.” They all looked up at him in confusion, partly because he just kept repeating the word “art” over and over in slightly different tones of voice and occasionally accents, but mostly because they’d been attending the school since kindergarten and they knew very well that he was not the art teacher. He taught gym. And was also the football coach. But Grantaire taught art, and he was the “cool teacher” because he let the students call him R and occasionally they watched Disney movies on Fridays instead of actually working. They had not signed up for this nonsense.

Just then, Grantaire came rushing into the classroom. “Sorry, guys,” he apologized, “Car trouble this morning, had to arrange to get it towed, if Bahorel here’s been bothering you, I owe you all an extra day of Disney.” he turned to the other man, who was now glaring at Grantaire menacingly and flexing his muscles, causing most of the students to start laughing. “Go back to your cave, troll, they’ll be in your hell soon enough.”

Bahorel tried to look as dejected as he possibly could, considering that he himself was laughing as he walked out of the classroom. “You’ll pay for that comment, you idiot!” he called over his shoulder as he left.

“Again, I apologize,” Grantaire said. “I’m Grantaire, you can call me R, we’ll skip all the introduction stuff since I hate it probably more than you do. Now, I believe I promised you an extra Disney day. Here it is. God knows y’all wouldn’t be paying attention to me anyway.”

“Excuse me, sir?” came a voice from the back of the classroom.

“What is it?”

“Did you just say y’all?”

“I did, and if you have a problem with that, you can sit out on Disney day, capiche soldier?” Needless to say, nobody else made a comment after that, and they all watched Tangled in perfect happiness. (And if Grantare sang along a little bit at the end, well, they weren't going to tell. They were sworn to secrecy, after all.)

**Author's Note:**

> So thank you all for reading so far, I hope you like it, I'm already working on the next chapter, but with summer assignments and all for school, it might take a little longer than usual. 
> 
> If you didn't notice, yes, Bahorel's art spiel was taken directly from the 10th Doctor's "physics" thing in that one episode. You all know what I'm talking about.
> 
> The Dalek thing is something my freshman year English teacher did with us, except hers was a stuffed Ducky from Land Before Time.


End file.
